


A Bit Odd

by ToAStranger



Series: Giving Myself to You (Prompt Fills) [38]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Agoraphobic!Stiles, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Fluff, Gen, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:59:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3714136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles decides his new neighbor is weird. </p><p>- - - </p><p>Hey, look, another old prompt fill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bit Odd

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Steter AU, Agoraphobic!Stiles with Peter trying to court him. Cute fluff and maybe some insecure!Stiles. Also could the Hales totally live, that would be AMAZING!! (throws you all the love and runs away)

Stiles meets Peter on a Wednesday. 

It’s an odd day to move in, a Wednesday.  The middle of the week when everything is going on, when everyone is working or—in Stiles’ case—not working; it’s odd.  Stiles decides that it’s odd.

It isn’t the only odd thing about his new neighbor.  He moves in right across the hall, and Stiles watches through his peephole as people come carting furniture, artwork, box after box into the apartment.  He watches Peter tip them generously even though he likely already paid the moving company for the services, and Stiles frowns.  Obviously too wealthy to live in these apartments; Stiles can practically smell the money coming off of him even through the door.

But the weirdest thing happens when Peter is still waving off the movers with a polite smile, one hand tucked into the pocket of his immaculately pressed pants, and then he pauses and looks right at Stiles.  Rather, he looks right at Stiles’ door and tilts his head, smile softening to something bemused.  He stares right at the other end of the peephole Stiles is peering through, and Stiles swallows thickly. 

Without a word, Peter crosses the yard and a half between their doors and raps his knuckles lightly against the enforced wood.  Stiles’ heart jumps up into his throat and he stumbles back a few steps, eyes wide.  Breath a bit short, his fingers twitch at his sides, and there is a pause before Peter knocks again. 

“Uh,” Stiles breathes, palms already starting to sweat.  “Can I—Can I help you?”

There is a soft laugh.  “Yes, actually.  I’ve just moved in, and I thought I might introduce myself to my new neighbor.  My name’s Peter.”

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. 

“Are you there?” Peter asks through the door. 

“Yeah—Yes, I um… I am.”  Stiles stammers, shuffling forward a step. 

There is another laugh, a bit awkward this time.  “Why don’t you open the door?  Let me introduce myself properly.”

Stomach twisting, Stiles’ fingers curl in tightly, nails digging into his palms.  “Um, actually—” Stiles huffs out a fake little cough, loud enough for Peter to hear.  “I’m pretty sick.  So uh, maybe next time?  I don’t want to get you ill.”

“Oh, I assure you that won’t happen.” 

“Really, just—“ Stiles coughs again, gives it a little extra oomph.  “Next time.”

Hesitation.  “Alright.  Next time, 201.  Have a good day.”

“You too.”

Stiles presses back flush to the door, watches as Peter stares for a moment before the other man turns and makes his way into his own apartment.  Stiles lets out a breath of relief, slumping against the wood, and pulls away only after he sees Peter’s door swing shut.

* * *

“What do you mean: what do I mean?” Stiles asks, pushing his cart along slowly. 

The Easy Mart is empty at this time of night except for the poor stiff that has to stay and work the night shift at the cash register.  Scott shuffles across the linoleum just behind Stiles, slippers scuffing against the ground as he yawns into his fist.  His hair is up at odd angles, but he is otherwise unperturbed as he meanders through the grocery store at Stiles’ side.

“I mean, why is it such a big deal?” Scott asks.

“Because if he’s gonna be nosy, then I might actually have to talk to him.” Stiles grumbles, snatching a box of Cheez-Its off the shelf. 

“And that’s a problem?”

Stiles shoots him a dry look over his shoulder.

Scott nods.  “Right, yeah, you’re right.  Sorry.”

“I mean, it’s not like I wouldn’t mind talking to him.  I can talk to him.  I can be friendly.”  Stiles insists as they turn a corner.  “But I just don’t need any new friends right now.  I have my quota on friends.  On people.  So unless somebody dies—”

“That’s not even funny, Stiles.” Scott mumbles, but it’s half-hearted at best.

“Not even if it was Jackson in some horrible pogo stick accident?”

Scott snorts.

“See?  I’m friendly  _and_  funny.”  Stiles says with an easy smile even as his fingers drum frantically against the cart.  “What else is on my list?”

Scott pulls out the sheet of paper from his sweatshirt pocket and blinks at it.  “Stuff for chicken pot pie.  You’re making chicken pot pie?”

“For game night,” Stiles chirps and wheels them towards the produce. 

“That’s this Friday?”

“Yeah, dude.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?  What, oh?” Stiles asks, stopping abruptly and twisting to frown at him.  “Don’t say oh.”

“I just… I kinda made plans with Allison and Isaac is all.”

“Plans with—Dude, the third Friday of every month is always game night.  If you guys don’t come, I’ll be a pingpong ball between Jackson and Lydia.  You guys can come over, those can be your plans—“

“We’re kinda going out of town all weekend—“

“ _Scott_.”

“I know.”  Scott grimaces.  “But, we’ll make it up to you.  Promise.”

Stiles hesitates for a moment.  “Fine.  But you owe me.  Big time.”

“How big?”

“Next two three a.m. shopping trips big.”  Stiles snaps, turning on his heels and pushing forward in a huff.

“What—But Stiles—“

“No buts, Scotty.  You made your bed, now you gotta sleep in it, or whatever.”

Scott sighs, resigned.  “Fine.”

“Good.  Now, should I put celery in the pot pie?”

* * *

Stiles groans around his paintbrush, rolling his eyes upwards.  He turns about quickly, gesturing with a throw of his hands at the canvas.  He attempts to talk around the wood in his mouth, but when Lydia’s lips thin, he pulls the paintbrush from between his lips.

“Lyds, come on, man.”  Stiles whines.  “You can’t drop that on me while I’m working.  My mojo is all gone.”

Lydia’s brow goes up, and she takes a slow drink from her mug before setting it back on the countertop.  “One, it’s not a bomb.  And two, your mojo is fine.  That looks great.”

“It’s trash,” Stiles scoffs, tossing his brush down to the cloth drop on the floor, padding over to where she’s sitting at the island bar in his kitchen.  “I’ll fix it later.”

Giving him a small smile, she pushes his coffee towards him.  “Who’s the customer.”

“Dunno,” Stiles shrugs.  “Some unknown benefactor kinda guy.  Likes my stuff, though.  Gives me weird requests too.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, this one was  _use red_.” Stiles huffs around a bemused grin, blowing on his drink before taking a sip.  “But are you and Jackson seriously not coming to game night?”

“I’m afraid not,” Lydia says.  “There’s conference down in San Diego that he needs to attend, and I’m meeting with an engineer about those schematics I wrote up.  Her company thinks it might be the right formula for the AI they’ve been working on.”

“Like robots?”

Lydia rolls her eyes fondly.  “Like robots.”

“Awesome.” Stiles beams.  “I guess I can forgive you if it’s something like that.”

“You guess?”

“Okay, fine, I forgive you.”

Lydia laughs.  “Thanks, that’s sweet of you.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome.”  Stiles says, pulling off his glasses and setting them aside so that he can pinch the bridge of his nose.  “Next Friday then?”

Lydia nods.  “Of course, sweetie.”

Stiles smiles.  “Awesome.”

* * *

Friday night and Stiles is alone.  His friends are all out of town, and he has only the warm smell of chicken pot pie and an endless supply of Netflix movies queued up to comfort him.  He sighs heavily, taking a tired drink of his soda, only to very nearly choke when there is a knocking at his door.

Scrambling to his feet, he smiles, wondering if Scott felt guilty enough to stick around despite his plans with Isaac and Allison.  He bet that Scott pouted and puppied around their home enough to convince them to cut their trip short by a day so that they could come over before leaving.  Excitedly, he unhooks the chain on the door and twists open the padlock before jerking the door open.  He falters at the charming smile of his neighbor, heart almost stopping completely.

“Hello, 201.” Peter says.

Stiles slams the door.

He sucks in a shaky breath, fingers trembling and face burning, and his tongue feels too heavy for his own mouth.  “Um.  I—Shit, I’m sorry.”

“It’s—“ Peter sounds unsure.  “It’s quite alright.  I just—I just got home and I smelled something divine coming from your apartment.  Thought I might say hello.”

Stiles swallows.  “Well, uh, hello.”

“Do you mind opening the door?”

“Yes.”

A pause.  “Pardon?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t open the door.” 

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.  I just can’t open the door, okay?”

“…okay.”

“I have a—There’s a thing, I have it.  I’m sorry.”

“A thing?” Peter asks.

Stiles grimaces.  “You can’t—I can’t let you in.  I don’t know you.”

“No, but I’d like to know  _you_.”  Peter says. 

“No, that’s—I mean, that's weird but flattering—but I’m saying I can’t open the door and let you in because I don’t know you.  It’s—It’s my thing.”  Stiles says, and he feels faintly nauseous just at the idea of opening the door.  “Sorry.”

“I don’t understand.”

Stiles breathes out for a long count and then in for another.  He locks the door and slides down to sit with his back against the wood. 

“I’m agoraphobic,” Stiles croaks, taking off his glasses clumsily and cleaning them with the hem of his t-shirt.  “I don’t know you, and I can’t let you into my safe space.”

“Oh.”

Stiles waits for the sound of Peter walking away, waits for the sound of his door banging shut.  Instead, he hears Peter slide down to sit at the other side of the door.  Stiles’ breath hitches.

“So is this okay?”  Peter asks.

“Is—What?”

“Can I talk to you through the door?”  Peter clarifies.  “Or does that bother you too?”

Stiles twists around, looking at the faded paint on the door.  “This is okay.”

“Good,” Peter says.  “Now, let’s try this again.  I’m Peter, and you are?”

* * *

“Boo!” Jackson calls, throwing popcorn at Stiles as he reclines against Stiles’ couch at Lydia’s side.  “This story sucks.”

Stiles bats a particularly well-aimed piece away with a dry look.  “Shut up.  It was—I liked it.  It was good.”

Lydia smiles, feet tucking up underneath herself as she steals the popcorn bowl from Jackson.  “So he just sat there and talked to you through the door?”

“Yeah.  Crazy, right?”

“Crazy  _boring_ ,” Jackson huffs.

Lydia elbows him.  “It’s sweet.  Very sweet.”

“Yeah,” Stiles nods, rocking forward onto his toes. 

“You didn’t even get laid, Bilinski.”  Jackson frowns at him.  “Why are you so fuckin’ excited?”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Stiles shrugs.  “I dunno.  He’s smart, he’s funny, he’s charming.  I think we connected.”

“Through a door.”  Jackson says.

“We talked for hours.”

“Through a  _door_.”

“We even talked about doing it again sometime.”

“ _Through_  a  _door_.”

“Yes, sweetie, we get it.”  Lydia says, holding up a hand, and Jackson’s jaw flexes.  “So are you going to invite him in next time?”

Stiles hesitates.  “Not exactly.”

Lydia frowns.  “Stiles.”

“I know—“

“You can’t expect to just talk to people through your front door for the rest of your life.”

“I don’t.  I’m just… pacing myself.”

“Pacing yourself,” Lydia repeats.

“Yeah.”

She sighs, but nods.  “Whatever works best for you.  Movie time?”

Stiles beams.

* * *

“—don’t take this the wrong way, but I already knew that you were an artist.”

Stiles blinks at the door.  “What do you mean?”

“I recognized your name when you said it,” Peter replies.  “There aren’t many Stilinski’s in Beacon Hills.  There’s only one, in fact, and that’s you.  I’ve seen your work before.  Rook to E-9.”

Stiles moves the piece almost dumbly; they have chess boards set up on either side of the door.  “You’ve seen my work?”

“Yes.  Actually, I’m a fan.”  Peter adds.  “I’ve commissioned you for a piece recently.”

Stiles frowns.  “Use red?”

“That’s me.”

“Holy shit, dude.”  Stiles gapes.  “Are you for real?”

“Yes.”

Stiles shifts.  “Are you—Are you, like, stalking me?”

“Not at all,” Peter laughs and Stiles wants to know what it looks like when he laughs.  “Happy coincidence is all.  I’d love to see the work-in-progress if I ever get the chance.”

Stiles feels his stomach churn.  “You want to come in?”

“Well,” Peter pauses.  “Yes.  You said you couldn’t let me in because you didn’t know me, but we’ve been doing this for a while now.  I thought perhaps that you might be willing to let me in.  If not now, then sometime soon.”

Stiles huffs out a small sound. 

“I’m not trying to pressure you,” Peter says softly.  “If you’re not ready, that’s fine.  Whenever you’re ready.”

Stiles worries his lower lip between his teeth.  “Not tonight.”

“Not tonight, then.”  Peter confirms, and Stiles smiles faintly.  “You know, perhaps sometime soon we can just… open the door.  I don’t have to come in, but it might help you get used to my face.”

Stiles’ smile grows.  “That sounds like a good idea to me.”

* * *

“Stiles?”

“Hm?” he looks up over the thick rim of his glasses at where Peter is sitting back against his own door across the hall, his pencil not stopping as he sketches the line of Peter’s shoulders—broad, lovely, beautiful. 

“Would you like to have dinner?”  Peter asks.

“Don’t we usually?”  Stiles asks, smile crooked as he musses a hand through his own hair. 

“No, I mean like a date.”  Peter says.  “Do you go out to dinner?”

“Not normally,” Stiles mutters, cheeks warming.  “If I do, I drink a lot.  Makes the anxiety better.”

Peter grimaces.  “No, that won’t do.  Perhaps I’ll make us dinner then.  Set up a table between our doors.  Have us a proper date.”

“You don’t have to—“

“I want to.”

Stiles bites the end of his pencil, trying not to look to eager and failing.  “Okay.”

Peter returns the look, expression fond.  “Okay.”

* * *

Stiles stares up at the ceiling dreamily as Allison paints his toenails.  “And then he kissed me goodnight.”

“You sound smitten,” Isaac mutters, half hanging off the couch as he flips through a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. 

Stiles swats at him.  “I’m not smitten.”

“You’re totally smitten,” Allison says primly.  “Stop moving.”

“Sorry,” Stiles says. 

Isaac snorts.  “Loser.”

“I’ll kick you out, cunt nugget.”

“Guys,” Scott says around a mouthful of Cheetos, walking from the kitchen to the living room.  “Seriously?”

“Sorry, not sorry.”  They call at the same time and Allison laughs.

Scott settles on the couch with an inelegant plop, grinning when Isaac puts his feet in Scott’s lap.  He nudges at Stiles’ shoulder with his toe, and Stiles looks up from where he and Allison are on the floor. 

“So are you gonna invite him in?”

Stiles is still smiling.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I think I will.”

* * *

Ironically enough, it’s a Wednesday when Stiles finally lets Peter into his apartment. 

Peter admires Stiles’ paintings, the one he’s still insisting on paying out the nose for, and they have dinner at the island counter in the kitchen.  Afterwards, they settle on the couch and watch all six episodes of The Fall together.  At some point, Peter’s hand ends up in Stiles’. 

Peter is a bit odd, but Stiles really doesn’t mind. 


End file.
